"Yeah, that's Carl," Cavanaugh said.
"As near as they could tell-tire tracks in snow, that sort of thing-he seemed to be there only a week or two at a time."
"So this is where he went between assignments," Jamie said to Cavanaugh, "the same as you went to Jackson Hole. This was his home."
"Close to Iowa City and Hafor Drive, where his real home was when he was a kid." Three houses up the street from mine, Cavanaugh thought. He remembered the two-story homes along the street. Most were painted an idealized white. Big front windows. Thick bushes. Luxuriant flower beds. Lush lawns. Again, he felt hollow.
"Then three years ago, according to the neighbors, he pretty much stopped coming," Rutherford told them. "That's when the place started looking worn down."
"Three years ago." Cavanaugh nodded. "After Carl got fired and wound up working for that drug lord in Colombia."
"The postman who drives this route says Bob Loveless gets magazines and bills. Renewal forms. Advertisements. Things like that."
"And tax forms," Cavanaugh said. "He needs to keep paying his property taxes, or else the county will take the farm. We need to assume someone comes here to check if there's mail and to forward it. Maybe the same person who pays his taxes."
"Someone we'd like to talk to," Rutherford concluded. "The mail gets delivered late in the afternoon. Yesterday, when you told us this was the address we wanted, the local FBI office had just enough time to intercept the postman and arrange for him to leave some advertisements in the box. Agents have been watching the place since then. So far, there's been no sign of activity in the house and nobody's picked up the mail. We don't dare go in there until someone stops at the mailbox. Otherwise, we might scare the courier away. We'll just need to lie here and wait."
"Maybe not as long as you think." Jamie pointed.
To the right, a dust cloud appeared, moving steadily to the left along the dirt road. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw a gray SUV approaching the mailbox.
Rutherford spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Everybody stay in place until we see what we've got."
The SUV drove closer, continuing from right to left. Cavanaugh's pulse increased, although he was oddly conscious of the emptiness between heartbeats.
"Steady," Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie.
The SUV appeared to go slower as it neared the mailbox. Despite the dust the car raised, the sun reflected off the driver's window. Braced on his elbows, Cavanaugh concentrated so much that he leaned forward, trying to get closer to the car.
It passed the mailbox and continued down the road.
No one spoke for a moment.
"If that was the courier, maybe he or she sensed something was wrong and kept going," Jamie wondered.
"Maybe," Rutherford said. "Or maybe it's just someone driving into town."
Another cloud appeared on the road, this one caused by a red pickup truck that drove from left to right. It sped past the mailbox, almost obscuring it with dust. The faint drone of the engine drifted away.
A minute later, it was a blue sedan that came from right to left.
Cavanaugh felt an increased sense of being stuck in time while the world sped toward disaster. He thought of Brockman, who should have been in New Orleans by now, organizing Global Protective Services agents. Several times the previous night, Cavanaugh had tried to contact him on his cell phone. No response. He'd tried Brockman's home phone. Again, no response. Rutherford had called the FBI office in New Orleans to see if Brockman had checked in. No sign of him.
Once more, Cavanaugh pulled out his cell phone, but this time, instead of trying to call Brockman, he pressed the numbers for Global Protective Services, intending to send an agent to Brockman's apartment, only to cancel the call when he stared toward the road beyond the field and saw the blue car stop at the mailbox.
16
The dust cloud hovered. All Cavanaugh could see was a vague figure leaning out the far window of the car, opening the mailbox.
"Steady," Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie. "This could be somebody putting an advertisement or something into the box."
A young woman-jeans, leather jacket, blond ponytail-stepped from the car. She walked to the gate, unhooked its chain, and swung the gate inward. Then she got back into the car and drove up the lane toward the house, the sound of her engine receding.
"Not yet," Rutherford said to the walkie-talkie. "Wait until we see what happens."
The car reached the house. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh watched the woman get out. She stepped onto the porch and tried the front door but found it locked. She looked through the windows. She proceeded around to the back, out of view.
Listening to an earbud linked to the walkie-talkie, Rutherford reported what the other watchers were seeing. "She's trying the back door. It's locked, also."
Now the slender woman came back into view. She tried to get into the barn, tried to get into a shed, then gave up, returned to her car, and drove back toward the road.
"Go! Go! Go!" Rutherford shouted into his walkie-talkie.
Abruptly, the countryside was in motion. Camouflaged men with rifles rose from tall weeds near the house. Vehicles that had been hidden on a nearby farm sped from that property and raced along the road, hurrying to block the lane. A faint drone became the growing rumble of two enlarging specks on the horizon: helicopters speeding toward the farm.
The woman's startled face was visible through the windshield. Shocked by the sudden appearance of the camouflaged men, she urged the car forward.
Armed men blocked the lane. The woman swerved into a field, desperate to veer around them. But now a dark van arrived, blocking the open gate. As the men with rifles converged on her, the car's wheels got stuck in the field. Tires spun. Dirt flew. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw that the woman had her hands to the sides of her head. She was screaming.
"Hell of a start to the day," Jamie said.
Standing, they brushed dirt from their outdoor clothes. From lying on the cold ground, Cavanaugh's knees felt stiff. A long time since I was with Delta Force, he thought.
"You take the car, John." He pointed toward the back of the hill, where their vehicle was parked. "I need some exercise."
"So do I," Jamie said.
Rutherford considered them for a moment, then nodded.
Descending through stiff, brown grass, Jamie told Cavanaugh, "And maybe you need a little more time to get used to coming back to this farm."
"That too."
The crunch of his footsteps seemed to come from a distance as Cavanaugh gazed ahead: past the cars at the entrance to the property, past the blue car and the men searching the distraught driver, toward the house, the barn, and especially the building next to the barn. He remembered being in the passenger seat as his mother drove him and Carl up that lane for their weekly lessons. Then Cavanaugh's memory was shattered by the roar of the helicopters landing where his mother had always stopped near the barn. Instead of two boys getting out of a car, men with rifles leapt from the choppers and scurried among the buildings.
Wordless, he and Jamie reached the lane at the same time Rutherford arrived with the car. They stepped aside for a van that sped past them toward the house. Squinting in the cold stark morning sunlight, Cavanaugh watched the van stop next to a leafless oak tree, men hurrying out with dogs.
Cavanaugh pointed toward the woman. She was outside the car now, slumped against a fender. "Jamie…"
There were no other females on the team.
"Yes, I'll talk to her," Jamie said.
Taking the opportunity to postpone going up the lane, Cavanaugh watched Jamie speak to the armed men. When they stepped back, she went over and leaned against the car, mirroring the woman's slumped posture. The woman wiped away tears. Jamie approximated that gesture by pushing a few strands of hair behind her ears, using imitative body language to establish rapport.